Here at AANP Towers we are inclined to pay short shrift to those who shuffle our way with puppy-dog eyes and quivering lower lip, complaining of bad luck. "You makes yer own luck," we have been known to roar, with such ferocity that the aforementioned puppy-eyed, lip-quivering urchins have literally exploded into a ball of flames before our eyes; or else we invoke the barely perceptible murmur of a true testosterone-fuelled hero like that chap Stallone, and instruct "Take it like a man"; or indeed we sagely impart the sporting wisdom of some aged American golfing chap, and intone with zen-like calm "The more I practise the luckier I get".

So here we go, without doubt the biggest game since our last eye-catching fixture for which three points were at stake. While the win over a pretty inept Everton had all and sundry proclaiming this lilywhite vintage the greatest thing since Danny Blanchflower sliced a loaf, the draw with uber-negative Wolves had Hansen imploring all Spurs-supporting MoTD viewers to find their nearest cliff-top and hurl themselves in anguish – so whatever the outcome against table-topping City the reaction will presumably border on the apocalyptic.

So finally this much-vaunted "Game in Hand" is upon us. Truth be told, I will be a little sad to see it go. It has practically become part of the family, like a scruffy, uncouth urchin discovered in the wreckage of the summer riots, and adopted by the cheery folk of White Hart Lane. And let's face it, this Game in Hand has proved more useful than the Sword of Omens when it comes to pointless bickering with fans of l'Arse, Chelski, Liverpool and the like.

Recent games have dealt with the notion of ‘Arry as a tactical buffoon in no uncertain manner. In days gone by the signing of VDV, the plan to loan Bale to Nottingham Forest and the instruction to Pav to "go out there and f***ing run about" did little for our glorious leader's reputation as tactical genius, and was grist to the mill of a whole army or interweb critics (mea culpa) who lambasted him for doing little more than closing his eyes, pinning a tail on a donkey and accepting the plaudits as his blind gamble paid off.

Just when I had considered giving up on Father Christmas altogether, he fills my stocking with dropped points by all of Chelski, l'Arse, Liverpool and even Man City. And – and - he even un-twinges VDV's hamstring. I'm not sure there has ever been a Christmas quite like it.

No reason not to expect another high-class performance, missed chances a-plenty and ultimately three more points tonight.

Crunch time. This one could not be much bigger if it were written in size 72 font, stretched in a rack and then injected with muscle-steroid-type-things by that Russian giant of a chap David Haye beat a couple of years back. It's not just the three points, which would give us a five-point platform from which to wave down at Chelski, with a game in hand.

"The measure of greatness is not how many you win, but how you react to defeat". Or something along those lines. In fact, AANP may have invented that just now.

Anyway, the point is that the epithet has been fairly redundant for as far back as I can remember, as we would generally fail to win in the first place, and then react to defeat with another defeat, or a two-goal lead thrown away late on, or whatever.

· Have we ever had a less important match in our schedule? Friendlies aside, this is one of the greatest non-events in our history. With Sunderland and Chelski coming up in the League over the next week, and the cyanide-laced chalice of Europa qualification limited to mathematics equations of the absurd, ‘Arry would be forgiven for just leaving Clive Allen and Tim Sherwood to take care of the kids tonight, or maybe fielding Allen and Sherwood themselves.

After a run of 10 wins in 11, and six in a row, the true connoisseur does not really want the record to grind to a halt against Stoke. Against Barcelona maybe, or the Harlem Globe Trotters – but not Stoke.

Stoke are actually a member of that elite and highly exclusive band of English teams that have indeed beaten us this season (cast thine mind back to our peculiar Carling Cup exit a few months back).

Switching from the all-conquering, award-winning, glitz-laden superstars of our rollicking Premiership campaign to the prepubescent kids and want-away squad members on our midweek Europa jaunts is somewhat akin to putting down the Dumas novel in order to tune in to Dogtanian and the Three Muskehounds – nobody in their right mind would dispute that it remains quite magnificent entertainment, but the whole forum is perhaps a little more frivolous.

What ho, and I trust you are in as fine fettle as AANP, for today's basic algebra lesson is that a win today will take us third, and with a game in hand no less. Crivens! Let's ruddy well get out there, dominate, take the lead, sit back, invite pressure, concede one and hang for dear life for those three points!

Anyone else feeling a little sorry for the boy Defoe? He couldn't be much sharper if he had great big glinting blades attached to his elbows, and yet come matchday he is left to watch on pensively as VDV ripples the net like it's going out of fashion. The ultimate ignominy – inclusion amongst the tots and second-raters for the trip to Russia – cannot possibly have lightened his mood.

Rarely do I expect our heroes to lose – away to the Manchester clubs are about the only fixtures this season in which I would regrettably project nul points - but to that roll of dishonour let the epithet "Rubin Kazan. Away. And With Kids" be added. Those Russians can rightly feel a tad aggrieved at having to slop back off to Siberia with nothing but commemorative THFC thermal underwear, for they had the woolly mammoth's share of possession and chances that night, and are likely to cause us a fair degree of bother on their own patch.

1. Collect Underpants
2. ?
3. Profit
As the South Park Underpant Gnomes so crucially failed to diagnose, some things are a dashed sight more difficult in practice than they appear on paper. Nota bene, ‘Arry and the assorted Hotspurs, for bottom of the table Blackburn may be, but alas it is unlikely that they will simply roll over and allow us to tickle their tummies before disappearing into the night with three points.

Few things in life scream "Pointless Money-Making Charade!" quite like a Europa group stage game, but this one actually has relevance, sub-plots and all other sorts of curious goodies the like of which have rarely been seen on a Thursday night on Channel 5.

On a formal note, this game is actually laden with group-deciding significance no less.

I have looked it in the eye, monitored its pulse-rate and threatened all manner of violations that contraven the terms of the Geneva convention – yet I can confirm ‘tis true: the league table doesn't lie. Newcastle are currently in the Champions League spots.

Not that even the most fervent of their breed would harbour much hope of them still being them come May 2012, but fourth they are, and reading between the black and white strips this points to a team pootling along in marvellous early-season form.

Strange times these – the first in my living memory that we've gone into a match against that ‘orrible lot from down the road with the bookies sidling over into the lilywhite camp. The noisy babblings of my l'Arse supporting chums ring a little hollow these days. Current form; playing personnel; summer transfer dabbling; inside out; upside down – any way you look at it we have the edge at the moment.

With fourth spot in the Premiership all but wrapped up it's time for everyone to swing around and face this direction once again, just hither. I appreciate it can be jolly dashed mind-boggling these days trying to separate one competition from the next, but my spies tell me that tonight it's Europa.

Exciting times, what? Having gone at it hammer, tongs and any other household implement you can think of last week, the prospect of another rip-roaring performance certainly gets the juices flowing.

As well as more attacking nous than you can shake a large stick at, our heroes now come fortified with an added dose of Scott Parker, a particularly handy ingredient on away days such as these.

Europa League or Carling Cup, which ought we to want less? It's a tricky one. The Europa League trophy is a sizeable beast, and its lack of handles gives it a pleasingly Neanderthalic edge – one cannot help but handle it in rough, uncouth manner when raising it aloft, which is rather apt after 90 minutes of blood and thunder.

‘Tis held in some quarters that as a whippersnapper the schoolboy ‘Arry would wile away his hours yelping "Wolf!" with tedious regularity, but on Saturday even the cynics amongst us realised that his "bare bones" mantra could be objectively verified. The adage has it that actions speak louder than words, so when young Giovani was shoved out onto the pitch for a few minutes it became evident that ‘Arry spoke sooth, and our lot really were struggling for personnel.

(An early preview, as I'm off on a fresh gallivant this weekend). An air of equanimity has pervaded AANP Towers these last few weeks, even as Wellbeck, Dzeko et al were rippling our net from all angles, for those openers were two games from which few if any points could be expected.

Like the Queen visiting the troops in Helmand in a symbolic gesture to bolster morale, we lilywhites need something to raise spirits, for few amongst us found anything comforting in Monday night's debacle and gloomy faces abound. Timely then that that Hearts are pootling along the High Road to be given the run around tonight, for another gentle, if pointless, five-nil win would be timely.

Rejoice, all ye fellow lilywhites. Admittedly it is also with a degree of trepidation (Old Trafford will do that to a Spurs fan) but goodness me it is wonderful finally to be able to look forward to Spurs in Premiership action tonight. ‘Tis with delight therefore that I invite you to gather round and peruse with me the permutations of team selection for the evening's festivities.

And so, finally, off we go, in the rather unorthodox settings of ITV4 and Edinburgh. It is a truth universally acknowledged that any Scottish team whose name does not rhyme with either "Beltic" or "Changers" is there for the taking, so first game of the season or not, this lot must be destroyed. ‘Arry has understandably enough made noises about fielding kids and reserves in the Europa League, but while none of us want injuries ahead of the United trip on Mon, it would nevertheless make sense to field a full-strength side tonight.

Big loveable One Michael Dawson popped up on Spurs TV this week to spout the line that he and everyone else pattering away with bibs and cones within the confines of Spurs Lodge are dead confident, honest, of making the Top Four this season. I suspect that anyone viewing the footage particularly closely would be struck by the sight of his nose growing longer and longer with each diphthong uttered, but bless him, who amongst us has not had to tow the company line from time to time?

Such are the rigours of supporting Spurs that I have been happy to bleat away for the last few weeks about how we will despatch Real Madrid over two legs, yet struggle to see us gleaning more than a point at Wigan. Legend has it that even great big burly types like Achilles had the odd weakness or two, and the chink in Spurs' armour seems to be opposition that is near-enough fit for life in a division below us.

And just when we had all got our breath back after the Milan game, and switched our focus back to domestic matters, Gary Lineker of all people matches us with Real blinking Madrid.

Minor Digression

Some lilywhites of my acquaintance reacted with dismay to the draw, but around these parts there were back-slaps and whoops unconfined.

Well if this doesn't get your juices flowing I suggest you go and boil your head. Tottenham Hotspur vs AC Milan. It's the sort of fixture that makes me want to don nothing more than a loin-cloth and go wrestle a bear, then save a small child - and svelte, scantily-clad brunette – from a burning building, before reducing Colonel Gadaffi to tears with a devastating best-of-five demolition in Scissors-Paper-Stone.

It's the bare bones, if ‘Arry is to be believed, a dry carcass with not a scrap of meat adorning it.

Such heady nights as these do juggle with the emotions somewhat, for what other explanation can there be for going into a game against AC ruddy Milan half wishing that Jenas were available?

Ostensibly I suppose this has little to recommend it. Our lot are without the glamour boys Bale, Modric and Van der Vaart, and there is no Darren Bent sub-plot for added intrigue. It's the sort of game for which Tony Gubba in the final slot on MoTD was invented – but fie upon the BBC schedulers.

One down, seven to go - the dream of a run of eight consecutive League wins remains, at least within this particularly deluded little mind. This afternoon's task will not be easy - Bolton outdid us on their patch earlier in the season, and in Kevin Davies have precisely the sort of striker whose presence makes me shudder from my Park Lane vantage point.

Life without Gareth Bale? It began after 10 minutes last weekend, will continue today and, if scurrilous rumours are to be believed may even take on a more permanent edge, with Inter understandably keen to see "Year abroad" added to his already astonishing CV in the near future. Mercifully, this is one of the transfer window's less likely rumours, but his absence nevertheless seems likely this afternoon.

In a curious quirk of circumstance it transpired that neither I nor my avidly Spurs-supporting chum Ian could earlier this week recall, off the top of our heads, the identity of this weekend's opponents. Such was the importance of last week's game against Man Utd that everything thereafter paled into insignificance, at least temporarily.

Our heroes have made a pleasing habit of dispelling various hoodoos in recent months, and the latest to present itself is a ten-year drought against the eleven men of Manchester United and their various assistants in black. Over the last year or so we have torn apart some of the cream of Europe, with United's the only scalp now missing, and while unbeaten our visitors have looked far from invincible to date this season.

And now for something completely different. At third (and, later fourth) round stage the FA Cup hardly constitutes fixture congestion, so the question of where it stands in our list of priorities can probably be deferred to another day.

Bingo cards out then, as we look to cross off the names of various squad members last season posing merrily in the club photocall back in August.

Around ten days ago I mused that I would have settled for eight points from our four Christmas-New Year games. Three games in and we already have nine, which means that the riotously good fun continues into 2011 – still not yet out of the title race, most definitely still in the Top Four race and looking down upon the rotters from Stamford Bridge, languishing beneath us.

Another day, another game, and really this should be another three points. There is no such thing as an easy game in the Premiership apparently, but if there were Fulham at home would probably be it. While they have just won away, they did so at around the five hundredth time of asking, and on the back of two successive ten-man wins and a two-month unbeaten run our lot are in cracking form at the moment.